WH40k: Burning Scars
by DodgeStreaker
Summary: Mortarion loathes the look of his own reflection, his 'hideous' appearance is a permanent and constant reminder of his past mistakes, and it also serves as a reminder to the mortals of the Imperium that even the Primarchs aren't as perfect as they seem. Just the very thought that he's the one to let them know this disgusts him - Disclaimer: Warhammer 40k (c) Games Workshop


**A/N:** **I wrote another story that didn't have a year long break in between? Hoooollllllly yep. Anyways, I h** **ope you don't mind the minor mishaps and inconsistencies on actual lore because, well, FAN-FICTION! And yeah :)**

* * *

His entire body served as an outline for failed experiments and way too many exposures to toxins, liquid or airborne chemicals that could even kill a Primarch if given enough time and enough substance. Now of course he had been the one to make them, all these flawed and successful designs, they were all his. And too many times during multiple stages of processing had they burned or damaged him in ways too cruel for the more human mind to think, leaving his body a map of scars and dead skin. The nerves underneath the surface were long dead, leaving what was above and exposed unnaturally smooth or ragged.

Due to this he was left unable to feel anymore. All that could truly be known as tactile only existed on the inside now, and he feared that soon enough even that would be gone. He was practically a walking corpse in his own right, but even with that factor and his ensuing paranoia, it didn't stop him from creating more. It was a hobby that too soon turned into a habit and then an addiction. In truth, he couldn't stop simply because he didn't _want_ to stop.

It just added another reason to his already long list of self loathing.

So when outside of the solitude of his own room or his personal lab, he always wore a hood up. Even when in the presence of his own father or any of his brothers, he refused to show his face as much as he possibly could, and he always made sure to dress in clothing that exposed as little skin as possible if he were not armed in the comforts of his armour. He never did like himself all that much, even back on Barbarus where he felt at home to some degree. He was a freak of nature. What Remembrancer would even _dare_ to wish to sketch down his appearance for all the Imperium to commemorate? Maybe to mock him they just might...

They more than likely saw him with extreme antipathy, much like how they feared Angron or the Night Haunter. His entire being was repulsive, he wasn't some handsome demigod like his perfectionist brother Fulgrim, or naturally majestic like his angelic brother Sanguinius. He was anything _but_. Perhaps if he spoke about this predicament to Lorgar, the priest might be able to find a way to lift his spirit from this abominable curse, but he doubted it so he didn't bother to ask.

* * *

Pulling down on his cowl, he tugged it this way and that to keep his face as concealed as much as possible as he made his way to the bridge of the ship. Though even with his face mostly hidden, he was hyperaware of all the mortal eyes that laid upon him as he went by and he tried his best to keep hidden behind the bulk of his Deathshroud Terminators, though it didn't entirely work out as he was still much taller than regular Astartes; and so he swiftly navigated his way through Endurance's broad corridors in a hurry. He absolutely **hated** it when they stared, had they nothing else to do? Though he silently thanked himself for not being 'born' a Psyker like Magnus, hearing their thoughts on him would have likely driven him insane long ago if the whispers of the Warp hadn't done so already.

Finally arriving to the bridge after what felt like an eternity of walking rather than, at most, fifteen or so minutes, the Primarch spoke very few words to the deck crew and the ship's Captain before retreating to a small private chamber above the deck to seek solitude once more, his personal guard easily taking up respective positions by the doorway outside. As he closed the large doors behind him, he let out of long held sigh before slowly trudging his way over to a large padded chair placed by the window. Nearly collapsing in the seat he slouched down in it, closing his eyes and going through some breathing exercises he had been taught to help calm his nerves when he got overly stressed. Though his breath hitched when there was a knock on one of the doors and the barrier between the safety of this room and the deck were forced open as someone allowed themself in.

Though they were kind enough to close the doors behind them once they had fully entered the room, but it didn't bring him much comfort knowing someone else were in here with him when he had just escaped the public eye. Remaining where he sat, he hoped that perhaps if he stayed quiet enough whoever it was would leave without bothering him too much. But much to his luck, he was wrong and he flinched when a gauntleted hand was gently placed on his shoulder, causing him to look at the one who had intruded his personal space with a bewildered look. However he couldn't help to relax when he saw it was the familiar face of his short-tempered seventh Company-Captain, Garro.

"Are you alright, Lord Mortarion?" He asked in a soft tone and the Primarch sighed, shaking his head slightly as relief began to inch back inside of him. The Captain nodded and gestured off to the side before retracting from the Emperor's son and retrieving one of the spare chairs, bringing it over and placing it across from his Lord before taking a seat. _Astartes_ , they were far different from mortals, they were just as scarred as him and they never stared or questioned his appearance. And it was because of that he trusted them and some he even cared for their company.

* * *

After several hours of uninterrupted time spent alone in the chamber with Garro, there eventually came another invading rap upon the sealed entrance of the safe-room. In a successful attempt to keep Mortarion in his already relaxed state of mind, Garro was the one to head over and answer the stranger at the door, simply hoping that it was just a report from one of the deck officers for he knew the Deathshrouds guarding the door wouldn't let just _anyone_ bother their Lord. Though much to his expectations it was just _that_ , and the Captain soon returned to his Lord as a whispering voice of him having a visitor. Remorse filled the Primarch's gut as he allowed whomever it was to enter and have an audience with him; flipping his hood back up, Garro respectfully looked straight forward as he stood by his Lord's side and let the mortal step into the room more meant for Gods than herself.

Much to his dismay, the small woman who had been granted permission to see him was a Remembrancer, and of course it had to be one of those drawing artists as well. He was drowning in regret now and he prayed that she wasn't one of those mortals who had a picter unit built into their head so that they may just _blink_ and take a picture at will. He just shook his head slightly at the thought, but froze in mid-action when she **dared** to ask a question he dreaded the most.

"May I sketch you, Lord?" The query somehow sounded... _Innocent._

"Why? So you may humiliate me further?" His answer was gasped, his voice was nearly shaky, but he tried to force it down. Tried to make it sound like he wasn't _afraid_ , and he focused on distracting himself by taking in her appearance as he waited for her to answer. He could easily turn her down...Honestly he could, no harm done.

She was a small woman, seemingly smaller than the others he had seen aboard his ship, just barely above five feet tall. An ant compared to him. In hand she carried an ink pen that tapped against her arm quietly in a twitchy movement and there was an old parchment notebook tucked under her arm. Her skin was olive and smooth, but her hair was long and wiry as it was pulled back in an unkempt bun; its pigment was pale and Mortarion silently pondered if it were the original colour or the use of a dye. He had almost forgotten why she were there as he so easily distracted himself to ease away his nervousness.

"No Lord," she replied, humbly spoken. "I wish to capture you as you are. Another wonder to the Imperium, magnificent in your own way. Lord I mean you no offense when I say this; you're a story, everyone is, and I wish to capture the fine details of your tales through a portrait. Perhaps you may shy away to not liking how you appear, but I must say, your story is quite valiant and I wish to record it if you will allow me."

In the presence of his seventh Company-Captain he swiftly dismissed her offer and had her carefully removed from the premises of his safe-room, but not before he was given her designation. He kept his hood up and lowered until she was out of his sight, and the posture of his sitting soon changed back into a tired slouch. Oh how weary he was.

* * *

He eventually took her offer up in private a few weeks later.

During the entire session he had been fidgety, and only a few times did she have to politely ask him to sit still, though not once did she seem angry or disgusted by this. Not having his hood up in front of the very few people he trusted made him like that, anxious and jittery, wanting to escape or to pull his hood back up without a moment of hesitation. But when her work was finally completed he was awestruck by the how well the image mirrored his own face. Even the smallest details were there and perfectly matched, it was like looking at his own reflection...

But what caught him off guard the most was when she smiled at him and told him the drawing was his to keep since he seemed so uncomfortable about it. Looking back down at the parchment in his hands as she dismissed herself, he consciously _felt_ a smile quirk at his lips. Perhaps he would ask for her to draw him again sometime, maybe with his hood up next time.

Maybe he would actually let the Imperium _remember_ him how he truly was.


End file.
